


The Sound of Melodies

by Beckers522



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), First Kiss, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Piano, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckers522/pseuds/Beckers522
Summary: Anthony Crowley had always been told he was talented. That he had a gift. Music came alive as his fingers danced across the ivory keys. Frowns turned to smiles. Worries faded away. People listened to him, were drawn in by his songs. He was going to be the greatest pianist alive someday, people said. He was going to make his mark on the world.Until, one day, he wasn't. Until hospital beds and ventilators and all manners of needles and wires and monitors entered his life. Until organ music rang through the church and they buried his mother six feet under. Until the melodies within him vanished and he walked away from music forever.Or so he thought.Seven years later, a single melody pierced through the rain on his walk home from school and stirred something inside Crowley - something he thought he would never feel again. Where had this song come from? Who could have created such angelic music? And how was Crowley ever going to find his angel again and thank them for bringing the joy of music back into his life?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 40





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is an original piece I've been working on for the last few years. I got stuck about 2/3 of the way through and haven't been able to finish it. On my run earlier today, I had the brilliant inspiration to alter the story slightly to fit a Good Omens AU (since I have so much fun with those). Hopefully this will allow me to both provide some entertainment to my favorite fandom and maybe even finish this story! With the right encouragement, I believe I can do anything :)

The thermostat had been set to freezing in the room backstage – most likely an attempt at balancing out the burning bright lights that each performer would feel once they stepped through the false door at the other end of the room. Twenty minutes remained before the performance hall lights would dim and the first musician took the stage. Five minutes until the doors to the hall opened and the audience began to filter in.  
  
Most of the performers had arrived already and taken their seats somewhere in the back room. A trumpet player blew air into her horn, spit crackling somewhere inside the twists and turns of brass tubing. Next to her sat a flautist, fingers running up and down the metal keys as she went over one section after another of her piece. Strange sounds could be heard emanating from the vocalist’s mouth as he loosened up the chords in his throat. It wouldn’t take long for the others to begin filling the hall with the chaotic sounds of musical warm ups.  
  
In the corner of the room sat a boy with flaming red hair, tied back away from his face with a simple rubber band. He carried with him no instrument apart from his hands. They danced in the space before him, fingers flying lightly through the air as his amber eyes rapidly traced the stanzas of music in the book strewn across his lap, going over note after note.  
  
The boy was no older than ten, dressed in a fine navy suit his mother had picked out. She’d selected the shirt as well, but had allowed him the choice of ties. Naturally, the boy had picked out his favorite – a faded yellow one with tiny red and black snakes sprinkled across the fabric.  
  
A shiver ran down his spine, but not from the cold in the room. The boy had been in recitals before, ever since he’d started playing at five years old. He always got nervous in the minutes leading to his debut. He just had to hold on for a bit longer. As soon as the music began, he would be fine.  
  
“Whatcha gonna play today?”  
  
The boy’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest as a familiar voice sounded beside him. He looked over to see a girl close to his age. She was dressed in a frilly blue spring dress with large poofy sleeves. Her long black hair had been pinned back away from her face with a simple barrette. The girl was smiling over at him, trying to peek around his arms to glimpse the title of his song.  
  
“Swan Lake?” she asked excitedly. “That’s a good movie. I watch it all the time with my friend Katie. The frog is her favorite, but I think the turtle is the best.”  
  
He turned back to his music, not bothering to correct the young performer that “Swan Lake” and “Swan Princess” were far from the same thing. She was probably as nervous as he was and wasn’t thinking clearly. Not many students their age got asked to play for the annual Summer Music Festival. They were the youngest musicians in the room by at least five or six years. Gently, his fingers shifted back and forth as the boy turned the page, his mind imagining how the keys would feel beneath his fingertips as the melody played along in his mind.  
  
“Are your parents outside?” she queried, not understanding that the boy wanted to be left alone. He was used to her behavior at this point and should have expected it. This girl was as loud off stage as she was on it. Several years now, he’d been assigned as her accompanist for her recitals in the fall and spring and the dynamic of their interactions never changed. She talked, he pretended to listen. The only time the boy _actually_ stopped to listen to her was when she performed. As much as he was loath to admit it sometimes, the girl was a talented singer.  
  
The boy nodded. His mother and father had dropped him off early so they could be sure to get their seats. Every recital, they sat in the same place: far enough where he could only see them from the corner of his eye and wouldn’t be distracted by them, but close enough they could see him as his fingers strummed each and every key.  
  
His hand reached down to the floor beside him, grasping around nothing. The boy glanced at the ground, wondering what had happened to his water bottle. Surely, he had remembered to bring it backstage with him, hadn’t he? Evidence would suggest otherwise, as it was nowhere to be found. Without uttering a sound, the boy stood up and went to the door beside his seat that led out into the auditorium.  
  
Through the window, he could see his parents. They sat side by side, his father’s arm resting gently on the back of his mother’s chair. The man’s left hand absentmindedly played with a strand of her auburn ponytail that had fallen loose. Amber eyes watched as his mother reached into her purse and pulled out both his water bottle along with the small container of headache medicine she always carried around with her.  
  
Quietly, not wanting to call any unnecessary attention to himself, the boy pushed open the door and made his way down the aisle toward his mother. The doors to the auditorium had opened by now and people were beginning to fill the seats. He didn’t have much longer to wait before the show began.  
  
“Oh good,” his mother announced, a twinkle in her hazel eyes as she handed him the bottle. “I was just about to come in and get you.”  
  
Without a word, the boy took his container and took a small sip, surprised to find the water still cold. His mother smiled at him and he returned the gesture after a moment of hesitation.  
  
“Break a leg, kid,” his father flashed him a thumbs up before the boy turned to take his place backstage. According to his Spiderman watch, they had 8 minutes before show time.  
  
He shivered as soon as he entered the freezing room. The boy had barely taken fifteen steps out the side door and he had felt a world of difference. Glancing over at the girl, he realized how fortunate he was to not be expected to wear a dress. Although, the outfit may benefit her once she got onstage.  
  
“Natalie Bennet. You’re up first,” the stage manager’s voice came wafting through the room. She was a tall, slim woman, like an older version of the boy’s mother. Her long grey hair was pinned up atop her head and in her arms she held a clipboard filled with today’s itinerary. Beneath the schedule lay copies of each participant’s music in the case of any emergency.  
  
They were performing in alphabetical order. The board had decided that was the fairest way to do things. No need to make any unintended statements about who was better or worse than whom. Alphabetic order was safest.  
  
Alphabetic order meant the boy went third.  
  
The hum of the audience fell away. A single voice could be heard from the other side of the false door leading to the stage. Someone was introducing them, thanking all the audience members for attending this year’s recital. The boy tried not to take notice. He focused his eyes back on the music, trying desperately to drill the tempo into his mind.  
  
Applause sounded as the trumpet player walked onstage. The girl in the frilly dress skipped over to the other side of the room and plopped down on an old green couch next to a tiny tv no larger than a foot at its widest. From that position, she could watch the performance as if she were somewhere out in the audience. He couldn’t decide if the girl was lucky or not – going after the intermission. She certainly acted less nervous than he felt, given that it was almost time for him to take the stage.  
  
Before he knew it, the first song was over. From the corner of his eye, the boy watched the trumpet player take her bows on the tiny screen across the room. He counted. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The false door opened, and the trumpet girl entered, breathing heavily, hands shaking, with a wide smile on her face.  
  
The tenor was up next. After a few words from the announcer, he was ushered onstage. The boy felt his stomach clench as the stage manager motioned for him to rise.  
  
“Relax,” she whispered, flashing the boy a smile. “It’s Anthony, right? I remember you from the winter concert at the Elementary School. You’re really good. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”  
  
The boy smiled hesitantly, but said nothing. At this point, he wasn’t sure if his vocal chords even worked anymore. Absentmindedly, he began to twist the music in his hands, eyes drawn to the wide man on the screen. A deep, mature voice filled the hall, and when he hit his last note, the audience erupted into cheering and wild applause.  
  
“Stand back,” the stage manager ordered as she reached forward and gripped the iron door handle bolted to the back of the false door. It swung inward to reveal the tenor, dressed to the tees in his full tuxedo. The boy reached up a hand and straightened his tie, catching a glimpse of the black piano less than fifty steps away.  
  
“Alright kid,” the tall woman with the clipboard said as the announcer spoke the boy’s name from the center of the stage. _Anthony Crowley._ “You’re on.”  
  
He stepped out into the light.  
  
The change was instantaneous. Within a few steps, the boy could feel the heat building under his navy jacket. Sweat condensed at the base of his neck and on his hands as he turned to face the audience. Instinctively, he looked over at his parents who each gave a small wave. He smiled, then bowed.  
  
_Mickey and Minnie Mouse._  
  
It was a phrase his piano instructor had taught him to think whenever he bowed. Apparently, the perfect length bow was reflected in the names of these two famous mice. The boy righted himself and turned back toward the large instrument, placing his music on the built in stand. Taking a seat, he quickly adjusted its height, as the previous accompanist had been nearly five times his age and twice as tall.  
  
The first ten beats of the song came in quick succession – a collection of unison descending sets of notes that leapt back up to the top of the scale once they reached the bottom. Once his hands diverged, each taking their own paths, the boy forgot completely about the audience to his right. He was completely absorbed in the music.  
  
A waltz began directly following the intro and the boy’s mind was taken back to a memory of his parents. They were dancing hand in hand beside him as he practiced the section over and over again. He could hear their laughter echoing around him and it brought a smile to his face. In his mind’s eye, he could see his father stumbling over stacks of music, promising he would tidy them up after the dance was over. He never did.  
  
One, two, three. One, two three. Over and over the count rang through his mind as his fingers danced across the keys. Quickly, his left hand came up and flipped the page before it came crashing down to strike a chord in partnership with the right hand.  
  
The music changed. The count nearly became lost as the sound swelled, then grew quiet again. Almost ominously so for a short while. Then the notes became lighter, like the whisper of a breeze. A smile graced the young boy’s face as he pictured a tiny bird flitting through the air only to be buffeted by a strong breeze as it blew by in the form of a sudden change from mezzo piano to forte.  
  
Back and forth the music traded. Soft and light followed by strong and powerful. The boy’s long fingers danced across the black and white keys as he sang along to the tune in his head. He was fairly certain the music was no longer needed, but the boy had opted to keep it, just in case. He’d never performed a piece from memory before and while his instructor and parents believed he could do it if he tried, the boy wasn’t quite ready yet. Maybe next year.  
  
All at once, the boy’s light fingers crashed down onto the keys in a series of bold chords. They were nearing the conclusion now. His left hand carried forward the melody as his right hand flittered above on the high notes. One more flick of his wrist led him to the final page. The notes flew off the paper as his sound grew stronger and stronger, filling up the hall around him. The lights above him beat down, but the boy didn’t notice. He felt no heat or sweat or nerves of any kind. He felt only the music.  
  
With one final breath, the red-haired boy landed the last three chords perfectly and looked over at his parents with a wide grin on his face. They, along with most of the room had risen to their feet and were applauding wildly. The boy stood, grabbed his music, and stepped forward to take his rightfully earned bow. _He had done it_. There was nothing to worry about anymore.  
  
Once again, the boy’s amber eyes drifted to his parents. His father was still clapping wildly, beard sticking out in several places where he must have disrupted it earlier. A wide smile filled his face, echoing that of his son. Next to him stood the boy’s mother, cheering as loudly as any mother could. The boy saw the same happiness and pride that he felt that very moment reflected in her soft hazel eyes.  
  
He watched as they blinked once. Twice. Three times.  
  
He watched the gleam fade as her eyelids fluttered shut.  
  
He watched, breathlessly, as his mother crumpled to the floor.


	2. Chapter 1

Most days, Crowley stayed after school. He wasn’t in any clubs. He didn’t play sports or have to attend band practice. Crowley didn’t do much of anything outside of school, yet every day when the final bell rang, he gathered his books, put them carefully away in his backpack, and made his way down the front steps of the school and over to his bench.

The bench didn’t belong to him entirely, although his father’s sizable donation to the school had allowed for the new landscaping. He had to admit, looking up momentarily from the math textbook settled on his lap, the school looked infinitely better with fresh grass, new trees – the workers had even installed a bike path that led from the front of the school, past his bench and the practice fields, and into the woods nearby. Crowley had never traveled the path before, but he was told it led all the way through the adjacent neighborhood and to the park.

A sharp whistle from across the track field caught Crowley’s attention. He turned his gaze in front of him once more and squinted, trying to make out the individuals currently running laps around the asphalt. Eventually, through the crowd, Crowley spotted the familiar bright yellow t-shirt belonging to his best friend, Newt.

If asked, Crowley wouldn’t be able to discern when their ritual had begun. Every afternoon for the past two years, Crowley would find somewhere on the school grounds and wait for Newt to finish practice. Cross-country, swimming, track – it didn’t matter what the boy was doing. When the weather was warm, Crowley waited outside. During the colder months, or in the unfortunate incident rain was on the horizon and practice was still being held, the library became his place of refuge.   


The group of runners made their way around the far curve and back toward the bench where Crowely was sitting. They wouldn’t draw much closer, as the track was situated opposite him on the other side of a chain-link fence. Still, Crowley watched the yellow shirt bob up and down as Newt rounded the next curve, staying a few paces ahead of the pack of his teammates.

Eventually, the red-haired teenager forced his eyes back to the page before him. While it was far from his favorite subject, math wasn’t entirely terrible. At least, not yet. It was still early on in the year. Plenty of time for things to crash and burn as far as he was concerned. Just because they were working on review material  _ now _ didn’t mean things would stay that way forever. Eventually, the class would move onto something new and Crowley would actually have to start putting forth effort. It was a day he was very much not looking forward to.

“Pi.” A voice sounded in his ear sometime later, so close that Crowley nearly leapt off the bench. He turned to look at the tall boy standing next to him, wondering what in the world Newt was talking about. Moments later, his unspoken question was answered.

“Pi,” the boy repeated, gesturing to the half finished problem on Crowley’s page. “The answer is pie. Three point one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three-five –”

Crowley reached out and shoved Newt gently away from him. He smiled slightly as the boy flung his arms out and began to wave them wildly about in an attempt to ‘balance’ himself once more. Theatrical as always.

“Is the answer ever not ‘Pi’ with you?” the red-haired boy teased, sticking out his tongue toward his friend. “I’m convinced you only say it as often as you do to show off how many digits you have memorized.”

Newt shrugged. “Guilty as charged.” He continued to speak as Crowley gathered up his things and shoved them haphazardly back into his backpack. “It’s been six years now and Ms. Hannon has yet to have a kid beat my record.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and got to his feet, slipping one arm through the strap of his bag. “Do you stop by every year and ask? Or is that just your ego talking?”

“Of course I stopped by,  _ Anthony _ ,” his friend responded in kind, emphasizing Crowley’s first name. Quickly, Newt slung his own bag over both shoulders and turned away from the school. “A man needs to know where he stands.”

The boys turned and began walking along the curb between the parking lot and the chain link fence surrounding part of the soccer field. Crowley reached out a hand as they walked, ignoring the soft tingling he felt every time his fingertips thwacked against the metal. Newt walked beside him, placing one foot in front of the other as he attempted, and failed, to balance on the cement curb. Nearly every other step, he was teetering one way or the other, freestanding foot touching briefly against the grass or pavement on either side. Crowley snorted quietly under his breath. One of these days, the boy was going to twist an ankle doing stuff like this.

Suddenly, the taller boy stopped, feet still straddling the concrete border. Crowley turned to face his friend, knowing he would be better off staying silent. Asking Newt to explain himself was a waste of breath. The explanation always came, one way or another, whether he wanted it or not. 

“What did you do with Kara?”

Crowley blinked. Just because there was technically an explanation didn’t mean it always made sense. “What?”

“My s-i-s-t-e-r.” Newt spelled the word out. “Isn’t she walking home with us today?”

Crowley shook his head, shifting his backpack to the other shoulder. “Kara had her doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Your dad swung by earlier and picked her up.”

“Right,” Newt responded, picking up with his tightrope act as if he’d never stopped. “Thanks for keeping track of her for me. I can never seem to remember her schedule, let alone my own.”

“What are friends for?” Crowley joked back. It wasn’t as if he had much else to keep track of. The boy wasn’t involved in any after school activities. He didn’t have to remember which practice to attend or when his races or meets were. It was easy keeping track of Kara’s availability because, like him, she hardly did anything outside of school other than read.

They continued to walk side by side along the sidewalk, following as the path curved right and continued on toward the center of town. Crowley and Newt walked home together most days. When the boys had been younger – too young to stay home by themselves – Crowley had started spending the afternoons with Newt and Kara at their house until his father could leave work to pick him up.

Now that he was seventeen, Crowley could go home as soon as the final bell rang if he wanted. He chose to stay after with Newt and Kara out of habit. With his dad away at work, going home meant spending the afternoon. Crowley found that he much preferred spending that time with his friends. Staying at school also gave him time to finish most of his homework so that when he did finally return home, he didn’t have to worry about getting distracted and forgetting to finish.

“Mind if we take a small detour?” Newt queried, gesturing to a road to their right. “Kara wanted me to pick up a new book for her. She’s almost finished the series she’s currently on.”

Crowley’s eyebrows rose reflexively. “Already?” If his memory served him correctly, she’d only started that series the week before. Had she really read five books in almost as many days? It seemed a bit extreme, even for her.

Newt nodded. He glanced back the direction they had come. Crowley’s eyes followed. There were no cars approaching from either direction. Both boys stepped into the street, Crowley’s feet moving almost double time to make it across. Logically, it didn’t make sense for them to run. They had already checked to make sure no one was coming, but that didn’t seem to matter much to either of them. They ran anyway, stopping only once they had reached the other sidewalk.

Second Look Books was a small store crammed full with dusty tomes with creased pages, stained covers, and all manner of musty smells. Shelves lined every wall, even the ones behind the checkout counter, with the extra books stacked up in piles along the floor and bare spaces on the walls. The whole place smelled of parchment and filled his nose with tiny particles that made Crowley want to sneeze. With all the concentration he could muster, the boy held back, crossing the threshold of the bookstore exactly three steps behind Newt

The cashier barely looked up from her magazine as the two high school boys picked their way around stacks of books haphazardly strewn about and toward the back wall of the store. This was not their first rodeo and she knew that. The boys had visited enough to know exactly where they needed to look.

“You take fantasy this time,” Newt commented as he branched away toward the sci-fi shelves. “Kara really liked that series you picked up a few months ago. Try to find something along those lines.”

Crowley simply grunted in agreement, moving toward the shelf of fantasy books. Newt really had very little idea what his younger sister liked. Of course, Crowley was no expert either. It wasn’t as if he read very often, or at all. Even still, at least he knew an interesting  _ looking  _ book when he saw one.

Slowly, his eyes scanned the books standing before him. Crowley started at the uppermost shelf, letting his gaze slowly drift downward. His whole life, Crowley had been told to “never judge a book by its cover.” When was the last time he’d taken that advice to heart? As far as Crowley could tell, covers and titles were the only things a person had to judge whether a book was worth reading. Who had time to read every single synopsis? Or worse,  _ actually _ read the whole book before making a judgement call. 

A book on the far right side of the eye-level shelf caught his attention. Crowley reached for it and gently placed one finger on the top of the spine. He tugged and the paperback inched forward. Crowley placed a second finger on the book and wiggled it forward enough to get a grip with his other hand. One more tug and the book slid free.

“After”. Not many books could pull in an audience with a single-word title. Crowley didn’t know if it was the fancy font or the partial image of a broken glass slipper along the spine that had initially caught his attention. He flipped the book over and took a moment to stare at the front cover. The image was a watercolor painting detailing two women staring out a wide window. After a moment, Crowley realized the women were in two separate rooms, staring out at two very different scenes. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed before.

The woman on the right had long golden hair, tied back in a braid that rested along her back. She was dressed in simple maid’s clothing but wore an ornate crown upon her head. Outside her window was the image of a gentle snowfall, burying the town in a layer of white. The woman looked calm, peaceful, and perhaps even a bit wistful. In the corner of her room sat a wooden spinning wheel that had been covered in spider webs.

To the left sat the image of another woman. She was dressed in a fine velvet cloak and a dress fit only for a queen. This woman stood before the window, the light from outside casting a shadow behind her. Another moment passed and Crowley recognized the light in the town below her to be the orange blaze of a fire. This woman stared down at the town with worry and sorrow, as if the flames below had been her own doing.

Crowley flipped the book over and began to skim the back. As he’d guessed, the book was about fairytale characters – three, if he was being exact. Above the box of text he was currently reading sat a wooden marionette, strings hanging limply around the summary, outlining the words for all to see.

Kara would like this book, Crowley was sure of it. She tended to gravitate toward the fantastical but enjoyed a retelling of a well-known story if it was done right. There had been several re-imaginings of movies done over the past few years and Kara had dragged him and Newt to each and every one of them.

With one book found, Crowley moved onto the next shelf. He removed several books and scanned their backs. A few he added to the pile in his left arm, others he placed back on the shelf. Some books were too similar to ones she’d previously read. Others sounded too cliché or uninteresting for Crowley to even finish their summaries, let alone offer them to his friend to read.

“How many do you have?” he heard Newt shout from the other side of the shelf. Fantasy and Science Fiction were kept in close quarters. Crowley imagined a lot of the same people read both genres, so keeping them close would be rather helpful for the searching customers.

“Four,” he responded, placing one more book back on the shelf. “You?”

“One…” Newt’s voice trailed off as a heavy sigh filled the air. Crowley peeked around the corner to see his friend frowning at the lowest shelf. Slowly, Newt moved from a squat to a standing position and meandered over to where Crowley was waiting. “How are you so good at this? You barely read anything at all.”

Crowley shrugged as the boys took their haul to the cashier. There was no guarantee Kara would like the books he’d picked out. Just because he thought they had been interesting didn't mean Newt’s sister would share the same view.

“This should last Kara about a week, yeah?” Newt questioned as they departed with their newly purchased treasures. Crowley stopped and held out both arms, catching the bag of books as it tumbled from Newt's grasp. Halfway through his previous question, the boy’s phone had started barking to the tune of ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, signifying Kara was sending him a message. Without thinking, he had reached for his pockets, fishing for the device. Without Crowley's quick reflexes, the books would have likely spilled all across the walkway. 

A single groan told Crowley all he needed to know about the message Newt had just received. Silently, he watched his best friend stare at the message for a moment longer before looking up to meet his eyes.

“Parents?” Crowley asked, already knowing what the response would be.

“At it again.” This seemed to be Newt’s go-to answer recently. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Tell Kara to start heading to my house.” Crowley adjusted the bag in his arms, the crinkle of the paper drifting up to his ears as he desperately tried to keep his backpack balanced on a single shoulder. “We’ll be there soon. She knows where the spare key is?”

Newt nodded. “She made up that whole rhyme last year, remember?” He pointed out, reaching a hand up to tousle his dark hair. “After she was forced to wait in the rain for over an hour. Monday it’s under the Mushroom. I’d be shocked if she forgot ever again.”

Crowley laughed quietly to himself as Newt began the text. He had forgotten that had been the reason for Kara’s key poem. Frankly, he was glad she had created it. If there was ever an emergency and Crowley and his dad weren’t home, Newt and Kara would always have a way inside. They would always have a place where they felt safe. 

“Right-o,” the other boy announced, slipping the phone back into his pocket and grabbing the bag easily from Crowley’s grasp. “Let’s get going. We’ll be watching nature shows all evening if Kara gets to the remote first.” 

While that remark wasn’t entirely true, it was enough to get both high school boys to pick up their pace. Neither one of them wanted to be the reason they had to listen to a bunch of buzzing insects and clips of strange specimens that lived in the most secluded parts of the rain forest, or thousands of feet under the surface of the sea. By the time they reached the end of Main Street, they were all out racing toward Crowley’s house, appearing as a great stone fortress now visible at the top of a distant hill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bit more setup before Aziraphale is introduced, but I promise we'll get to him. In the meantime, I'm having a lot of fun exploring Newt's character more. I don't write nearly enough of him.
> 
> If you were paying close enough attention, there was a little Easter egg of an original story I'm working on. See if you can guess what it's about :)
> 
> Hoping to have another update for you all before the weekend, so stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> If you like this story, feel free to leave comments or kudos! Feedback of any kind always makes me really excited to work on a story. I'm really excited about sharing this one with you all. I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> For anyone who was interested in the piece of music Crowley played in this chapter, here it is:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vGCIzZhxMA


End file.
